


cross my heart (swear i won't die)

by lucky_spike



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Raising Steam, Gen, Raising Steam spoilers, vetinari is a bastard always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:58:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: Vimes makes it a point to get to know everyone on the Iron Girder.Even the stokers.





	cross my heart (swear i won't die)

Vimes makes it a point, on the Iron Girder, to get to know everybody present. It is, after all, a fairly important journey: the Low King is on board, and what kind of guard would he be if he didn’t sniff out any suspicious characters? A piss poor one, honestly.**  
**

The engineers don’t worry him - he knows them already, at any rate, and they’re all too focused on steam and mechanisms to pose any legitimate danger. He only has to watch them for a few minutes at work, watching dials, pulling levers, to know this. They’re obsessive, and their first priority would be the smooth operation of the engine. One less group to worry about, then.

The stokers, though. He’d wondered about the stokers. Hand-picked by Harry King, Vimes reasoned they were probably above-board at least in this one specific instance, if not at any other point in their lives. But they were an odd bunch, mysterious pasts, with the sole task of shoveling coal into a furnace - a single-minded job, and not hard to slide into if, say, you wanted to hitch a ride on a rather important journey without drawing too much attention.

Vimes didn’t trust them.

There were eight of them in all, and they had the shifts worked out amongst themselves. Early in the journey, Vimes made the decision not to watch them work, as he had the engineers, because they had a simple job and, if he had to guess, they didn’t likely love it. He admitted, after talking to the first two that he might have been wrong on that count - bonkers about the railroad, the both of them - but nevertheless, Vimes weighed caution above all else. No, individual interrogation would be the way with the stokers. There would be no hiding, no avoidance, just a frank conversation for Vimes to ask his questions and take their measure.

Which was why, a scant 36 hours after leaving Ankh-Morpork, he found himself nearly apoplectic with rage in the stokers’ car, glaring down the tyrant of previously-mentioned city.

He had recognized the man as soon as they came face-to-face, next-day stubble and ridiculous gray shirt and trousers aside, and then blast him he’d had the nerve to say “I don’t suppose you’re going to interrogate me, now, Vimes?” before grabbing the commander by the front of his shirt and, sighing heavily, dragging him into the car. “I’d be obliged if you made it quick.”

“The _hells_ are you doing here?” he spat, while his body snapped to attention, because some habits can’t be broken. “Are you _insane_?”

Vetinari considered the question. “No, I don’t think so. In fact I’m nearly positive that I am not.”

“So _why_ are you doing - doing …” He waved his arms helplessly.

“This?” Vetinari smirked. “Would you believe me if I said it sounded like fun?”

“Absolutely not,” said Vimes, although he would have. He just didn’t want to.

“Very well. Then consider this: I have entrusted a fairly crucial portion of foreign relations to von Lipwig, and added in the potential for catastrophic mechanical disaster. I can do many things from afar, Vimes, but sometimes it’s best to ensure personally that things don’t go … awry.” He crossed his arms. “Honest enough?”

“You could die,” Vimes hissed, still lingering on ‘catastrophic mechanical disaster’. “If this train goes -”

“Then we all die,” Vetinari said simply. “Frankly, Vimes, I feel it’s unlikely and in either case, should the Low King, you, and von Lipwig die on this blasted mechanism while I remain in the city, my own lifespan there would probably not greatly outlast yours.”

Vimes blinked. He considered it. His rage banked, for a minute, but then another thought jumped into the fire and he snapped, “There will be fighting. You know there will be.”

“Hm, yes, I rather expect I do.” He smirked again. “I don’t need you to protect me, if that is what you’re thinking. Believe it or not, Vimes, I can take care of myself, on occasion.”

“It’s my duty.”

“I’m an Assassin,” Vetinari replied simply, which Vimes considered might be answer enough. “I will be equipped with a very serviceable shovel, and I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know I’ve also taken my own precautions.” There is a whisper and from somewhere - where? Vimes wondered - a knife appeared in Vetinari’s hand. Not a dagger, but a proper knife, with all of the intent and none of the class of the Guild’s usual fare. He blinked. “Feel better?” Vetinari asked, twirling the thing between his fingers before it vanished again, no more obviously than it had appeared.

“Not really.” Another thought occurred to him. “If you’re here, then who’s -” His eyes widened. “Charlie’s a godsdamn idiot, my Lord, excuse my Klatchian.”

“It’s Blake, for the time being,” Vetinari corrected. “Just Blake. And Charlie is an idiot, but an idiot who looks like me, and therefore not entirely useless.” He shrugged and, to Vimes’ complete amazement, grabbed a mug of coffee at random prior to taking a swig. “He has Drumknott with him, he’ll be fine.” He considered the coffee and then set it aside. “I don’t understand the compulsion to put sugar in coffee, I really don’t. Are we done here?”

Vimes blinked. “What? I - Dammit Vetinari -”

“Blake.”

“_Whatever_. Just …” Vimes scowled, and then, in a move that might have been suicidal back in Ankh-Morpork, but what did that matter here and now, when the Worlde had Gone Madde, he jabbed a finger into Vetinari’s chest. “_Don’t die_.”

Vetinari nodded solemnly. “I promise I will do my best not to, Commander. Can I leave now?”

Vimes glowered up at the man and then stepped aside. “_Fine_.”

“Duty calls, and all that.” Vetinari brushed past, and paused at the door, half-opened, to turn and raise an eyebrow at Vimes. “Good luck with your inquiries, Commander. Although, if I may offer a suggestion?”

“No.”

“I’m going to anyway.” Vimes noticed, as an engineer strode past, down the hall, that in a blink Vetinari’s typical genteel enunciation had disappeared, replaced with something coarse and clipped - Pseudopolis, Vimes realized. “Don’t worry about the stokers. There’s way more interesting stuff happening in the back.” He smirked. “I’ve got the front end handled.” He left then, scooping a shovel up from the rack outside the little room, and sauntered - _sauntered_ \- up to the engine. Vimes watched him go, hands in his pockets and a rancorous scowl on his face.

“Bloody bastard,” he muttered, before he turned away and headed back to the other compartments, to continue his inquiries … literally anywhere else.


End file.
